Nigel's Ballad
by MirandaMinerva
Summary: Nigel's last moments at Runway from his POV.


**Summary:** Nigel's last day/moments at _Runway_ before taking over Jacqueline Follet's recently vacated position at _Holt Enterprises_.  
**Inspiration:** _Vogue_, "_The September Issue"_, "_The Devil Wears Prada_" (book/film) & the song from the series finale of "_Monk_" (Randy Newman, _'When I'm Gone'_)  
**A/N:** Standard disclaimers apply. The recipe is original, but the ingredients (characters) borrowed. I extend gratitude to 'associatedbears' for reviewing and 'sheknowsnofear' for continued beta excellence. Despite external support, any flaws in the final dish are mine. _Bon appétit_ ~

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_**Nigel's Ballad**_

The overhead fluorescent lights were turned off almost an hour ago. Now, in the glow of a single incandescent lamp, you've tucked the last of your notebooks into a glossy, black Armani bag and pause to look around the Art Department one more time. With slow steps, you cross to stare at a faded Polaroid tacked on the small cork strip just below a now-empty bookshelf. You cannot bear to touch it. Let the new 'Nigel' take it down.

Behind you, the glass door makes a soft 'swoosh' as it closes.

Miranda comes to stand by your side. Some part of your brain tells you that if you can tell the hour of the day by her sweat-to-perfume ratio then you've been at _Runway_ for far too long. After almost twenty years, though, you can't help but have perfected quirky skills such as this. You wonder, briefly, if this is something you can put on your résumé - and snort at the thought.

Her hand flutters near the small of your back, fingers just barely brushing against your vintage cashmere sweater by Alexander McQueen, carefully chosen for this – your last day. You know she, of all people, will understand the underlying jab – the designer's recent demise had prompted a fierce disagreement between you as to his contributions, appeal, and (in her opinion) 'cowardly exit'. As always, Miranda won; a single line in the _Editor's Letter_ last month was his final tribute. If anything, she could be counted on to hold a grudge – McQueen's prima donna behavior during a shoot in 2003 had left an indelible black mark against him. You sigh, pondering her people skills.

Miranda's hand slides away, bringing you back to the present moment. She awkwardly folds her arms across her chest and you are glad for that – the motion a sign that she is holding back some sort of emotional remark, a potential land mine. Still, she cannot stop her lips from twitching and you brace yourself.

"We started the same day, didn't we?"

A quiet moment passes, the two of you standing there in the silent, darkened room, gazing at the picture. The date is scribbled along the bottom edge: _May 8, 1987_. You had escaped the sinking ship that was _Charisma_, only to find that a mercurial assistant editor from _French Runway_ had just staged a coup and was arriving to take the helm of the flagship publication. You had interviewed with and been looking forward to working alongside her predecessor. Upon hearing the news of the changeover, you wondered if you had left the Titanic for the Hindenburg.

To be fair, it had been a tumultuous start for both of you. Just two months prior, you'd called off a long and very wrong engagement, throwing off the shackles of a falsely heterosexual life. Miranda had filed for divorce from her (first) husband days before departing for America and her new position of power.

The two of you set foot on the 12th floor of the Elias-Clarke building that fateful Spring day with newly altered names and a common thirst for success. Both of you had lost your families to get there – although, in Miranda's case, she had cut the genetic ties of her own volition, a clear reminder as to who belonged to the stronger sex.

Finding yourselves thrown together in the same trench, you made an odd pair as you took up photo layouts and advanced on the garment racks and sales figures of_ Runway_ in a synchrony born of necessity. That first September issue together had been a turning point for the magazine and laid the foundation for a kind of respectful give and take in your relationship.

Yes, those early years were difficult. She had quickly acquired nicknames that were anything but encouraging and, more often than not, accurate. Although you were just as driven as she was, no one tagged you with odd names or rumors. You kept your focus on the magazine and ignored the drama of others. As a result, staff members came and went, some fleeing and others being chased off. Through the years, the two of you survived battles with management, photographers, and models (and even each other). It became an unspoken understanding in the world of fashion that speaking ill of her in your presence would garner no sympathy, and possibly vice-versa (although you wouldn't dare presume).

When, after the third or fourth year, you paused to contemplate the peculiar nature of your partnership, you found that the whole ball of string was complicated, defying definition. That was the first and last time you pondered over such matters. Until tonight.

This complicated thing you shared with Miranda Priestly has outlasted her marriages and certainly your lovers. You have never been sexually attracted to her, nor has there ever been any physical intimacy between you. With the exception of the return flight from Milan in 2001. She had been separated from husband #2 for less than a month, and was weary from breast-feeding 3-month-old twins. You had only just parted ways with long-term boyfriend #1. For a few minutes, somewhere over France, her hand came to rest on your thigh, fingers tracing gentle circles through your slacks, teasingly close to your groin. You both needed the feel of another person, even if it was implausible. Eventually, you grasped her fingers, gave a soft squeeze – a gesture of gratitude for the intent. She returned her hand to her own lap for the duration of the flight. It didn't qualify for admission into the 'Mile High Club', but there was a kind of connection, solidified in that experience, that was akin to the bond you felt with a sexual partner directly after an orgasm.

You never discussed your private lives. No plebian discourses about bedmates or life outside of the office. It was understood that if professional crossed into personal, the world would be irrevocably altered. Work was where the two of you could set aside the complications of life and love, and create magic, filling up many a blank page with inspiration and hope.

As you stare at the picture, it is difficult to fathom working with anyone but her. Of course, the 'you' in the image likely couldn't imagine working with her, nineteen years ago. Did she know, then, what lay ahead? You try to decipher this from her facial expression in the snapshot and the sparkle in her eyes as they stare back at you. The years had dulled the bright blue of her irises into something less intense. Perhaps the sparkle was an artifact created by time's effect on the image. Or, more likely, your imagination is playing tricks on you.

You study it further. Her hair, back then, had been a mousy brown – that hideous color was no certainly no photographic defect, although even now you wished it was. Her hairstyle remained static through the years, even as the color drained away. It was so much more fitting now, the white crown giving her a regal air. Sadly, your own hair, instead of achieving a distinguished salt-and-pepper flair, has merely receded to the point of extinction. Much like the polar icecaps.

Your voice sounds coarse and not as wry as you had intended, "I suppose we both knew that Jacqueline wasn't going to work out. She and James Holt are the proverbial oil and water."

She doesn't respond, so you chance a sideways glance at the woman who, come tomorrow morning, will be your ex-boss, your ex-colleague – your 'ex' in ways that mere words cannot begin to describe.

Another moment passes and Miranda raises a hand to the desk lamp, causing you to cringe. For some inexplicable reason, you don't want her to turn it off. Thankfully, she only tilts the angle, engulfing the picture in darkness. The creak of the metal arm echoes in the dark space, bouncing off the long glass wall behind you. It is then that you realize the two of you are likely to be the only people in the building this late on a Friday night. It wouldn't be the first time, but it will be the last.

It is only now, this once, that she shares an elevator with you. As you cross the lobby, she even offers you a ride home. You decline, preferring the nearly empty streets of the business district and the cool night air. Besides, it would be embarrassing for her to realize, only now, that you live so near.

In this final moment, there are no tears, no hugs, no words. There is no need. She slides into the back seat of the vehicle as you walk away.

You know that her gaze follows you for a measure before she signals impatiently to Roy. You can almost hear her commenting on his ineptitude in that firm, soft tone of voice that has haunted your waking hours and your nightmares for years on end.

When the town car rolls past and melts into the traffic, the reality settles on your shoulders like a heavy coat - even if this move to _Holt Enterprises_ works out, you won't last another nineteen-year partnership. Only one more year with Miranda and you would have been exchanging china. There is something ironic in the notion that the longest, deepest relationship of your adult life ended up being a carefully constructed one with an undeniably enigmatic woman.

~Fine~


End file.
